December 25, 2016
Merry Christmas, Grinches and Grinchettes. We’ve orbited the great ball of fire once more and the fat man in red pajamas has again trespassed upon our property to dispense gift-wrapped gratuities. I hope your stocking offered something other than coal.
No travel horrors, extended family disputes, or entertainment anxiety here. We kept it low-key at Meduseld, limiting the festivities to the nuclear family of your humble web logger, My Beautiful Wife, and the Heir Apparent. For our first Christmas in the new house we wanted a certain intimacy. Of course we cooked enough for a murder of relatives (is it a ‘murder of relatives’ or a ‘suffocation of relatives?’ I’m never sure.) But leftovers will taste just as yuletidelicious.
The highlight for me is always the opening of the cards. Because that’s how the bookstore gift certificates are delivered. There’s something about the anticipation of strolling into Barnes & Noble, gift cards in hand, with no preconceived idea of what books to purchase. Utter freedom (or it would be if B&N carried the selection of, say, Powell’s. But hey, don’t look a gift card in the mouth, right?)
So, I hope the Spirit of Christmas achieved for you whatever the Spirit of Christmas is intended to accomplish in your philosophy. As for me, I think I’ll get some wine mulling and work on realizing my own Christmas spirit. Ho ho ho.